


Idle Hands Are The Devil's Plaything

by meretriciovs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, brollylock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretriciovs/pseuds/meretriciovs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gets a handle on his twiddling compulsion. With a little help from his friends.</p><p>Also known as my fingers slipped and some brollylock fell out and I blame tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Hands Are The Devil's Plaything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/gifts).



Mycroft had always been a twiddler. As a child it was pens, pencils, rulers, and in one unfortunate mishap, one of his mother’s fine china teacups. As he got older his habit matured with him, morphing into ice cubes in a whiskey tumbler, elegant platinum rings, and the omnipresent umbrella. But he could never stop. He hated it. For individuals such as himself, schooling his visual appearance into exactly the form he needed in any given situation was a vital skill. And yet his subconscious consistently rebelled, providing an obvious tell of his boredom, agitation, and sometimes even fear to anyone willing to observe. (He often noted how fortunate it was that people rarely observe.) He never dreamed that such a pedestrian character flaw could end up being his best mistake.

\-----------

“You’ve got to tell him.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

It was another typical afternoon in 221B, and Mycroft had taken advantage of John’s locum shift to stop by and have a chat with his little brother. Sherlock, donning his “I’m having a strop” uniform of cotton pyjamas and a blue silk dressing gown, was facing the window, violin in hand, and steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room. Mycroft hadn’t exactly anticipated this conversation going well, _per se_ , but after the events of the Lundberg case, certain truths about certain army doctors really couldn’t be avoided anymore. Yet he couldn’t even get him to focus long enough to stop playing that wretched Bach sonata for the third time in a row.

“Cowardice doesn’t suit you, Sherlock.”

“I can’t.” Sherlock barely got the words past his gritted teeth.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Er, is this a bad time?”

Lestrade hovered in the doorway, glancing back and forth between Sherlock’s tense silhouette in the window and Mycroft, casually reclined in John’s armchair, idly twiddling his umbrella handle. Mycroft had recognized Lestrade the instant his tired but determined footstep rang its signature from the bottom step of the stairs. After years of covert meetings in basements, one does tend to pick up these things, do they not? But more tellingly, by the minute upward jerk of his head, Sherlock had not heard Lestrade’s approaching footfalls at all. Despite outward appearances, he was actually wrapped up in the conversation. _Fascinating_.

“Garreth! Impeccable timing as always.” Behind Sherlock’s back, Mycroft and Lestrade traded a wry smile. “I was just about to ring. This git is trespassing and attempting to _murder_ me with his stupidity.” He spun around from the window, pausing briefly from his sonata to wave the violin bow at Mycroft. His eyes were stormy with irritation. “Could you possibly do your job and arrest him?”

“Only if you’ll tell me first why you weren’t at the yard this morning to give your statement like we agreed, and then refused to answer your bloody phone all day.”

“Dull.” Sherlock returned to his station at the window, redoubling his focus on the sonata.

“Listen, Sherlock, I need you at the yard to give your statement. Today. I won’t keep letting you leave crime scenes early if you can’t at least return the favor and show up when I tell you to.”

Sherlock gave no sign of acknowledgement, the melody slowly ebbing towards a crescendo. Lestrade turned towards Mycroft, feebly gesturing his left hand towards Sherlock, half asking Mycroft what the hell he did to get him so worked up, and half begging for assistance.

“I do apologize for the state of my little brother, Detective Inspector. He always has been so…” he danced his fingertips against the top of the umbrella handle, considering, before slowly sliding his fingers down the wooden shaft “…impertinent.” Mycroft smiled to himself before turning his attention back to Lestrade. “How is the case going, then?”

Mycroft continued to absentmindedly fiddle with the handle of his umbrella, slipping his fingers down the smooth wooden handle and back up again, then rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefingers.

“What? Oh, yeah, erm, fine,” Lestrade swallowed. “Good. It’s, um, you know, going.”

That was…odd. Mycroft focused his attention on the Detective Inspector and observed. It took him precisely 4.2 seconds longer to respond than socially appropriate. He suddenly looked somewhat flushed, but displayed no symptoms of illness. Breathing somewhat rapid. Not lying about the case; a pick-pocketing ring would have no importance to the higher echelons of the British Government. Not to mention his normal tells (overly calm, too intricate of an explanation) were nowhere to be seen. No wedding ring on – apparently _that_ unhappy situation had finally come to a close – but going by the state of his hair, no new current partner either. Difficulty making eye contact. No, something else. Eyesight fixed on… Mycroft flicked his eyes downward, following Greg’s fixated gaze… his own hand, stroking the umbrella handle. Oh.

_Oh._

Mycroft’s fingers momentarily froze as the pieces fell into place, breaking Greg’s trance. And then, slowly, deliberately, began stroking the handle again. Firmly, this time. By the time they made eye contact again, Mycroft was ready.

“Detective Inspector – _Greg_ – you have my personal assurances that Sherlock will be at the yard, fully cooperative, ready to give you his statement within the hour.” He continued to stroke, and with one arched eyebrow, dared Lestrade to break eye contact to gaze down at his hands again.

Lestrade, to his credit, maintained eye contact even as the slightest shade of pink worked its way up his neck. My God, he’s actually _blushing_. He paused, and exhaled as he rubbed the back of his head.

“See to it, yeah? I’ll, um, I’ll be in touch. You’d better be there, Sherlock.” And with that, Greg turned to see himself out of Baker Street.

Oh. Sherlock.

Sherlock, who at some point in the past 30 seconds, had stopped playing the violin and was no longer facing the window. Sherlock, who was wearing the smirk of a man who knew entirely too much and exactly how to use it.

They regarded each other in silence as the front door shut downstairs.

“You’ve got to tell him, Mycroft.”

“Piss off, Sherlock.”

_Damn._


End file.
